


Our Own Higher Plane

by Cities_In_Dust



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Other, Post-Canon, Romance, happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:55:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25951765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cities_In_Dust/pseuds/Cities_In_Dust
Summary: Crowley parked the car on the road. He could see Aziraphale, getting up by a campfire. Waiting for him… and but by Someone he was gorgeous. A deep breath later, the Demon opened the door and made his way over, carrying a champagne bottle with a home made blend. Straightening his jacket, time slowed.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 19





	Our Own Higher Plane

They’d agreed to meet on a certain field, on a certain evening, no matter the weather, or goings on. They’d have a picnic, one of many, but this one was the first… it was truly their’s.

Crowley parked the car on the road. He could see Aziraphale, getting up by a campfire. Waiting for him… and but by Someone he was gorgeous. A deep breath later, the Demon opened the door and made his way over, carrying a champagne bottle with a home made blend. Straightening his jacket, time slowed.

Neither could help but smile, taking the sight of the other in. The only stipulation on this soiree was that they wear something they haven’t worn before. Or at least, in a while.

Aziraphale’s white linen garments were wrapped in a red velvet evening coat, circa Italy, 1920.

“Crowley,” the Angel spoke softly, as if his name were venerated. He ran his fingers fondly under his jacket lapels. “Exquisite embroidery. How luscious you look in floral, my dear.”

The language spoken was ancient, different dialects effortlessly woven from a certain range of time and place, thoughtfully chosen, as if to say, ‘do you remember us when…?’

Crowley could answer from further back, but danced to the next relative linguistic memory (‘how about that time in…?’)

“Angel,” the strain of keeping his neck in place was going to burst it. “You’re bringing Italy back,” but his voice wasn’t going to let that beat his heart. Not anymore.

The responding smile was everything the universe needed to quietly sustain.

His gaze, smoothly plain and glassless, searched that face.

“Our own side?” One last question, to make it official. Crowley wouldn’t say he needed any ceremony as much as Aziraphale clearly did. Then again, he didn’t need to—his Angel saw him.

Long, slender fingers brought the other’s hand up to his lips, eyes glinting.

“If you like?”

“Always.” Angel’s breath.

“Our own side, then.” And there they were, they made it.

There, beneath dark grey and drooping skies, in a field that sorely needed rain, Aziraphale reached his hand in Crowley’s loosely spilling hairstyle as they both leaned in and shared a deepened kiss. Crowley had dropped a Champagne soda bottle, but after Eternity, he picked it back up, and they popped the cap off together. Foam christened the ground where they stood, and laughed. Someone went to get glasses, ice, and cream. It wasn’t far, but the other followed.

Both beings lounged an arm’s length away, bare feet enjoying the warmth of a simmering fire pit. An Angel decorated with self-tied flowers tried to remember a tune long forgotten, the song they first dared to dance with each other at a public revel. A Demon held his fingers in the air, eyes closed, recalling the beat through the steps they took. 

Humans today would call the tune more rock than anything, and the dancing they’d probably compare to a mosh pit, but the important part was remembering what they felt while in it. 

There was a connectedness then foreign to them both: an equality in momentum, a sense of fleeting emotion, repeatedly bursting from the beings around them. Waves of a certain coherence washed through the entire crowd. The only things that spurred them forward in this existence were the beats: of the beings around them, of the music, of each other.

That long night, they finally understood what it meant to be Human in a Human world, and it forever changed them.

They were, from then on, much closer to each other than it was safe to be. Yet, no fear lasts forever, and they found ways to manage, to communicate. They found a way to survive.

Crickets chirped in lulling song among the field. Aziraphale nestled against Crowley as they stared up at the Milky Way, and beyond. They could see past the light of the observable universe, and Aziraphale’s hand, tracing Crowley’s sternum, absently traced heavier paths before setting out to explore their lover’s reactions with more intent. 

Automatically, Crowley manifested his wings and covered them both as they turned and touched foreheads, signifying it was alright to relax on their Human-shaped forms.

Crowley’s eyes, as well as the sheen of his dark wings, revealed themselves to be an intense, stygian blue— an ultraviolet that was only seen as an imprint on the retina. His skin smoldered with blue fire, barely there, making his body softer than fresh minky fleece. 

Aziraphale couldn’t get enough of it, or his darkened lips that took little convincing they show their large, pearlescent canines. This is the Fire he adored, ever since the first time he refused to let Crowley’s natural Fire hurt him in the slightest. In fact, he taught it a thing or two about Angels in the process, still hiding from every eye. When they thought they’d be safer if they still acted like they were simply an Angel and a Demon.

As it happened, and presently, Crowley was too busy kissing a hyperbolic sun to care about any outdated rules their old sides ever had. The slow-sown giving and taking of each other over millennia truly made them Beings of their own right. They fashioned themselves out of love’s fierce alchemy, but in the end, it was how they Won:

Aziraphale’s body made a symphony; Crowley’s body lapped it up, and returned a texture to which air alive was pleased to render.

Trans-dimensional red wings caressed the inside of their near violet counterparts, purposefully making the attached Being hungrier. Fire Opal eyes dared him wickedly, and he obliged. If there were anyone to see a light show in a distant field, it might look like fireworks that cast the sounds of a thousand animal’s raving ghosts.

***

The soft buzz of rain woke Crowley before the must of wet earth did. When he opened his eyes, Aziraphale sat cross-legged, one wing shielding him from the sky. Their evening robe looked far more cozy on them, then, smiling satisfactorily at the state of things.

These things, he found upon raising, were in particular the wheat field that must have sprung up around them, at some point in the early morning hours.

Did Aziraphale really never sleep… or is this what happened when he did?

“Love, what’s..?”

“Ah, my Fire, look! Isn’t it perfect?”

Crowley straightened and noted that the wheat did indeed encircle them perfectly. With some amusement, he fixed the blankets around him. Then, he removed a coffee pot and two cups from the picnic basket. The rain let up around them, but continued a ways away, where the wheat started.

Aziraphale began the motions of warming his hands on the fire pit, and it gently regained its cracking, flaming posture. Enough so that Crowley could place the pot, and with another thought, some bread, over it on a wire grill.

“You’ve really done it this time, angel,” but he was laughing, as he tilted his head to rest it on the other.

Alas, he’d been outdone without even knowing it.

“The main course of Harvest feast, wherever She’s wreap’d, and thrives, Herself, on shifting ground, is Wheat.”

“What did I ever do, hm?”

“I’m taking that as the compliment it should be.”

Naturally, over coffee, bread, and honey, Aziraphale had a grand idea.

“Let’s build a house, Love. The way we can do it.”

“Oh?” Crowley swallowed a decorated slice whole. “Where?”

“I like it here.”

“In the wheat field? ‘Suppose it’s yours, after all.”

“We can keep bees, too… though they’ll need lavender, I think.”

Never knowing Aziraphale to either joke about, or pause, this list given the chance, Crowley said, “Give me a day,” and swallowed another slice of breakfast.

“Oh, Crowley, it will be so lovely.” Aziraphale beamed behind his coffee.

Crowley’s gaze had not faltered.

The rain, then, came pouring down around them. Leaving room, of course, for a perfect circle.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! X


End file.
